“Bull actually found the Sixth so dull and unintellectual that he left us, in order to cultivate the acquaintance of Culver, and fellows of culture and scholarship like him. It was a great loss to us. We’ve hardly had an idea in the Sixth since Bull left.”
This double hit greatly delighted the majority of the “Sociables;” scarcely less so than Bull’s red cheeks, and the gape with which Culver received the reference to himself.
“You’re not wanted here,” Bull exclaimed; “get out!”
“There! Isn’t that clever?” said the Hermit, in apparent admiration. “Did ever you hear a sentence so well put together, and so eloquently delivered. Why, not even the ‘too-too’ Wrangham (I hope Wrangham’s not here)—”
Blushing was the order of the day. Wrangham tried hard to look unconcerned, but as the eyes of the Club turned round in his direction, the tell-tale roses came on his cadaverous cheeks and mounted to his forehead.
“The ‘too-too’ Wrangham, who loves lilies because they are pure, and calls teapots ‘consummate’ because—well, I don’t exactly know why—he couldn’t have put his one idea so neatly—”
“Look here, Freckleton,” said Spokes, feeling it due to the dignity of the Club to put an end to this scene; “this is a private meeting. You’ve no right to be here. Nobody wants you.”
“Dear me! was that the silvery voice of toffee-loving Spokes?” said the Hermit, amid a shout of laughter; for everyone knew Spokes’s weak point. “He says ‘Look here!’ Really I cannot, until a sponge has been passed over the honest face and shorn it of some of its clinging sweetness. But, gentlemen of the ‘Select’—‘Select’ is the word, isn’t it?”
“If you don’t go out, you’ll get chucked out,” said Bull.
“Oh, wonderful English! wonderful elocution!” said the Hermit. “Ah, it is good to be here. Ah! he comes, he comes!”